you don't have any feathers
by emilyforprez
Summary: when mickey was like, five, he was super obsessed with airplanes.


**A/N:** hahahahah OH GOD this is the dumbest thing i have ever written but like fuck u basically if you think i can't write happy things! or if all you want me to right is happy things because i'm sorry broseph i just can't do it, i cannot write happy things, they turn out like poop and i feel bad about myself okay depressing things are the only way to go

anyway i got a review telling me i write ian too soft and like i totally respect your opinion and all homeslice i just disagree with it, i like the way i write ian, i like the way most people in fandom write ian, i just rly like ian gallagher and thank you for trying to like constructively criticize me but i don't think my style of writing him is going to change all that much sry2say, even if i wanted to i wouldn't be able to do it

anyway

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><p>When Mickey was like, five, he was super obsessed with airplanes. Thought they were the coolest things ever. Airplanes could do anything, go anywhere, big hunks of flying metal. Mom left on an airplane. Mickey could visit her. Could do anything.<p>

Birds were kind of the same, but definitely not as cool, and Mickey doesn't have wings. Ian dreams so big that Mickey thinks, when he's stoned the fuck out of his mind, that he's hiding wings underneath his deceptively-thin body. Ian dreams bigger than Mickey can think sometimes.

And Mickey's never-ever been on an airplane, never-ever even stepped foot outside of shitty Chicago, and Ian is already planning on flying away, to fuckin' New York, as soon as he can.

But Mickey doesn't have any feathers.

…

Ian grouches a lot more lately, about Lip, and Frank, and geometry. Mickey doesn't know how to shut him up, doesn't know how to tell him that he might accidentally chop his dick off if he doesn't stop talking about the fucking army.

Sometimes Ian catches on, not being a total fucking retard, and follows the waistband of his jeans instead, but it's not really a consolation. Mickey tries not to think about it — something about airplanes and the people they carry make his dick soft these days — and he can't really help it. Fuck.

"Sorry." And Mickey knows that Ian's sorry, knows it, hates that it even matters. That Ian is sorry. Like Ian needs to be sorry for having dreams and goals and shit.

Sometimes — most of the time — when Ian is lying face-down on Mickey's bed, not asleep but almost there, his breath coming in slow, deep sighs, Mickey wants it to be like that a lot, like it's no big deal.

Then his dad comes home, lugging in a six-pack of beer and grumbling about the game on the TV, and Ian is triggered to open his eyes and fasten his jeans and look like he isn't the total faggot that he is, and Mickey feels something sour and angry rising in his throat.

Ian whispers, "Tomorrow?" like it's even a question, and Mickey shrugs like it's even an answer, and Ian doesn't kiss him goodbye.

…

It's like a month before Ian leaves that Mandy finally says to him, low voice and all, "You should go with him."

Mickey laughs, because as if _that's_ not the funniest thing he's heard in his whole miserable existence. Airplanes were shit, for rich people and leaving moms and Ian Gallagher, and he doesn't have the money or the wings or the feathers, and where would he go if he went? It would be saying something. Admitting that Mickey really honestly can't even fucking live without Ian, the harsh truth, the worst truth.

Mandy says, "You can't even fucking live without Ian," and Mickey swears under his breath and counts the rotations of the ceiling fan.

"Fuck off." But she doesn't, just sort of sits there on the edge of his bed, looking at him like she never has, saying things she never would before.

Mickey's eyes don't meet hers, but he stares at the dent in his wall, the one that Ian made with his stupid fucking crowbar a million years ago. He's gotta cover that shit up with a poster. He doesn't want to look at it. It makes him sick.

…

Ian's packing. For the airplane, and for West Point, and for far, far away.

And Mickey doesn't even want to ask. He wants to shove Ian against the wall and bite his throat and grope for his dick and get lost in that easy sensation, but he knows if he doesn't open his mouth and say something, he'll never be able to close it.

"Gallagher."

Ian glances up.

"Let me go with you."

The silence is immediate and palpable and Ian slowly stands up, giving him a funny look, like he's going to laugh. Mickey really hopes he doesn't. He'll probably punch him in the face. Mandy looked it all up for him, trying to be helpful or something, trying to prove something to him. That it could work — he could get an apartment, wait for Ian to finish freshmen year, then live with him or something — it means more than what it sounds, a commitment of some kind, and that's why Mickey didn't want to ask. Didn't want to think about it.

Ian's face breaks into a supremely dumb grin and Mickey's foot itches. "Are you serious?"

"Do I say shit just to say it?" It could work. Mandy said it would. Mickey trusts his sister more than he trusts himself, sometimes. Most of the time.

Ian stares at him for a second longer, like he's trying to figure out if Ashton Kutcher is about to burst into the room. Then he laughs, like Mickey knew he would. "Okay. Alright. If you really want to."

Mickey really wants to. "Okay." They really don't have a plan at all, still kind of too young to be making a decision about anything, but Mickey tries to imagine staying in Chicago for the rest of his life and never-ever sprouting wings and Ian is his way out, his plane ticket.

He's something else too, something important, something Mickey has realized he can't really be without, and Ian knows it, he can tell, because he gives Mickey these looks that say everything all at once and Mickey doesn't know how to read that fast. Ian used to smile like he had a secret, and now he smiles because he shares one.

Mickey kind of fucked himself over with this one.


End file.
